


you are the unforecasted storm

by heavensfallingaroundus



Series: AM [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Clubbing, M/M, New Year's Eve, Pining, Songfic, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22076476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: NYE.Glasgow.A certain song.Thunder.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Series: AM [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1427662
Comments: 15
Kudos: 63





	you are the unforecasted storm

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I really thought I could go one week without posting.
> 
> And yet.
> 
> This is another one of those—written in a hurry, mostly stream of consciousness, re-read once, _written entirely on my phone_.
> 
> Like almost everything I ever put out there, this was inspired by (my) real life events, wishful thinking, Glasgow, and Alex Turner.
> 
> Here goes nothing.

The guitar riff is insistently piercing Richard's eardrums. 

It's like he can feel a storm approaching, and the people around him seem to be closing in, like he's being engulfed in clouds and rain and electricity.

He sees nothing but him, right now.

_Brian_

No, no, he wants to say. 

Not Brian. Taron.

 _Taran_. 

The thunder. 

Chaos and order colliding. 

Richard's personal piece of heaven.

_Top marks for not trying_

Taron's head is banging to the music. It's so loud in the club and they're standing a few feet apart, so Richard can't be sure whether he's only mouthing the lyrics or actually singing along.

Fuck, he's hot.

That much Richard knows for certain.

_So kind of you to bless us_

_With your effortlessness_

_We're grateful and so strangely comforted_

Taron is now reaching a hand out towards Richard and grabbing the ridiculous knit tie Richard's wearing—the event title mentioned a Twenties theme, and he's very possibly one of the few morons who actually thought of sticking to it, showing up to a fucking goth-rock club in the fucking centre of fucking Glasgow in full Tommy Shelby attire—and he's pulling him in. Alright, well, Richard's definitely not complaining. 

_Some want to kiss, some want to kick you_

Well, Richard definitely, _definitely_ wants to kiss him.

_There's not a net you couldn't slip through_

_Or at least that's the impression I get_

_'Cause you're smooth, and you're wet_

Taron is so close. His hands are all over Richard—pecs, shoulders, neck, biceps, forearms—and Richard feels like he's being struck by lightning. 

He can also _smell_ Taron, now. He smells like vodka tonics and his Boss cologne. Richard always jokes about that one— _are you trying to be Jamie Dornan or Chris Hemsworth today, T?_ —but he secretly adores it. It hits all the right spots.

_And she's not aware yet_

_But she's yours_

_She'll be saying, "use me"_

Richard wants him.

He's wanted him for nearly two years, now. 

He had him, for a while, too. Or, John Reid had Elton, more like. 

He knows what he tastes like—what he _tasted_ like at the time of all those on-screen kisses, that is.

Nothing else ever happened, because Richard was never sure just how far either of them could afford to take their already very intense and fiery friendship. Flirting, yes. There was a lot of that, indeed. Pecks on the corner of Richard's mouth that just barely grazed their lips together. A few square millimetres of what _could be._

Richard wants him.

_I imagine that it's there on a plate_

_Your whole rendezvous rate_

_Means that you'll never be frightened_

_To make them wait for a while_

"Well, what a lovely Christmas I've had," Taron said, over the phone, a couple of days back.

"Wha' happened, mate?"

"Emily said she's done. Broke up with me on Christmas Eve. Over the phone," he sighed. Relieved? Richard couldn't be sure. "So much for grown-up relationships and being straightforward with each other—which is exactly what she told me we should do when we got back together, by the way."

Ooh. Interesting.

 _I'm sorry, Taron_ , he should have said, in a concerned tone. _Are you alright?_

"How old is she again?" is what he said instead, very smug.

"Twenty-five."

"You're a big boy now, Taron. You can afford better. Someone more mature." 

_Possibly a man._

"Women are generally more mature, aren't they? I feel like I've stumbled upon the exception that proves the rule," Taron says, chuckling. Only a tad bitterly.

Richard laughed it off too, unable to add anything to the statement that wouldn't sound unbearably pedestrian and insincere. 

Then, a crazy idea struck him.

"I'm…" _sorry you got dumped, she's a moron, you deserve better_ , "supposed to be going to a NYE thing at a friend's house in the outskirts of town," he said, feeling his heartbeat quicken. "But there's this other thing I'd much prefer to go to—rock soirée at a club. Used to be my fave. It's been an age," he continued, distinctly feeling like he was losing his train of thought. Better get to it, then. "Anyways, point being: catch a train. Let's hang out. Drink and smoke. Be good for ye. Take yer mind off things."

A brief silence on the end of the line.

Was Richard supposed to show more sympathy, instead of suggesting an immediate—friendly, innocent, pals, mates, brothers, _definitely_ not pining, dunno what you're on about—rebound?

Has he fucked it up?

"Taron?"

"Yes, yes, sorry, I'm 'ere," Taron replied, the smile in his voice distinctly audible. "Fucking 'ell, seven 'ours on a train to see your ugly mug. Forgotten how Northern you actually are, Madden."

"Aye," Richard replied, feeling a little more hopeful. "Clear skies over the Lowlands for the next few days, though. Loads of whisky in Ma's cabinet. C'mon, T." _Don't make me beg._

"Hmm," Taron hummed, hesitantly. "So many things to do on NYE, though. Do I want to spend it with your smug Glaswegian arse, is the real question, 'ere."

Richard bit his lip, and chewed on it for a couple of seconds. Then, fuck it—he decided to go all in.

"You know you do."

Some more silence. Laughing.

"Yeah, alright. You win this one. See you soon, Madden."

_I doubt it's your style_

_Not to get what you set_

_Out to acquire, the eyes are on fire_

_You are the unforecasted storm_

So now here they are.

Sweaty, drunk, a little high. 

Dancing. 

Close. Grinding on each other. Banging their heads to the music. This song, straight from Richard's twenty-first birthday party. This song from _thirteen years ago_ , and where the _fuck_ is time even going, and how is it already almost 2020.

This song about a man, out of control like lightning, loud like thunder, unpredictable like a tempest.

This song… about Taron.

Taron, who's now breathing dangerously close to Richard's face. Pulling on his tie again. Piercing him with his eyes—light green reflecting the neon blue from the club mood lighting.

Every inch of Richard's body is ablaze.

The drums, like heavy rainfall, match the frantic beat of his heart.

_Calm, collected and commanding_

_(Top marks for not trying)_

_You leave the other stories standing_

"Kiss me," Taron breathes, cupping Richard's ear with one hand, to be sure that Richard gets him.

Richard's breath catches in his throat.

Taron presses against him a tad more.

He's hard, Richard can feel it now.

 _Fuck_.

"Kiss me _now_ ," Taron says again, commanding.

Richard feels a rumble leave his throat. 

Contentment. Relief. Desire. Yearning.

It's thunder clapping inside him, too.

He grabs Taron's face in his hands, and he kisses him.

It's dark clouds and roaring winds and the smell and feel of heavy rain on his skin.

It's pure electricity.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed whatever the hell this was.
> 
> These two definitely are my favourite worst nightmare.
> 
> Peace out, and I hope you had a great first day of 2020.
> 
> Love you always,
> 
> C x


End file.
